It's like I'm some millennial idiot reading then re-reading your text messages. Like it's some high tech voodoo and I am summoning energy on you somehow. The TV flashes random advertisements for cosmetic products I don't actually need. All I can do is scan my eyes over what you said... well what you typed.
"Hey great chat! See you around maybe."
I feel like I have been waiting on this sort of interaction with you for a while. I see you out. I'm not stalking you or anything. Our city is small and I'm not giving up my friends. Your stubborn ass isn't either. We are grown ups. Grown ups stuck in some never ending summer of loud music and unpaid college loans. But grown ups none the less. We run into each other trying to look affected in the divey bar or walking our smallish apartment friendly toy dogs. You say hello but never anything more than that. I was graced with a text this time though...
Never mind that I devotedly brought you a lunch along with mine for three months when we were scarf folding slaves over a summer. Never mind that I'm only one of three people that know you refuse to watch Sixteen Candles because your parents forgot your birthday once too. Never mind that you used to bend me over some shelf in the walk in fridge of the bar you worked at. Never mind that every time I run into you on the street like we did early last week and I start getting all sweaty and gross and in love again, all you can TEXT me is THAT?
I read the stupid words over and over. Why did you use an exclamation point? What kind of wildly enthusiastic tone were you trying to pepper such a safe message with? Why am I freaking out so badly over seven words? None of them are 'eviction' or 'pregnant'. And then I see the word. The one word that is making my brain melt like some EZ Bake Oven cake left too long. 'MAYBE'. You said "see you around MAYBE"? What does that even mean? I see you all the time. I see you when you are shopping with that pre-packaged Asian child you pass off as an adult girlfriend. No really, she seems nice and of age. I am just jealous. Naturally.
That was the beauty and tragedy of our relationship though, wasn't it? Keeping me wanting more. Making me jealous. Holding tenderness just over my head like I'm some kind of pet. But I loved it. And I loved you. And I kind of love the way I keep obsessively looking at my phone. But I know you're not a two time texter type. I'll live off the stupid sentence until I see you again. With my luck I will be on a date with some disinterested English dude. Some kind of man to make you roll your eyes and maybe also feel kind of sad that I'm with someone possibly interesting and storied. Or do you even care?
I know you do. This is our dance. We're both monsters for each other. You'll eventually break Miss Chinese America's heart. Probably around a major holiday, as that is your poetic style. Maybe you will move down the street from me. I'm sure I'll see you at the corner store. The English guy will be out of the picture for sure by then. Wanting someone you know well is always so cyclical. Falling into one another's world like old friends, but with a layer of make up sex. We will go get tacos at the beach and create more layaway memories. Paying into some epic movie fever dream romance that might not happen. Listening to sludgy whiny noise and pretending (maybe learning?) to be in love while looking for the next best thing.
It all started as any other boring date does. Some dipshit idiot taking me to a dinner his bar tending career couldn't possibly afford. But I guess he wanted that pussy pretty badly. Sucks for him too, because the actual meal wasn't even that great. Sensing his obvious disappointment in my palpable unimpressed state, I suggested we do something fun and active and...free. He knew of a house show in the next borough. We grabbed a cab and headed over.
To be fair, this fellow was NOT that unimpressive. He was slightly older, always had a button down shirt on that wasn't too dirty or too clean. Salt and pepper at his temples. Squnity eyes like that cute skater boy who sat behind you in high school detention. "He will have to do." my brain sighed. I held a small candle for this guy because he had a weird vintage clown doll in his apartment and it creeped me out/fascinated me in the darkest ways. So yea, basically I was continuing to hang out and bang out with someone because he had an old clown doll. Judge on, as I'm absolutely certain you've done or are currently doing way worse.
We approached the house show. There were various sweaty fashion punks streaming out of the basement. The house was painted black with sloppy yellow trim thrown on as a decorative afterthought. As we traveled through the old brownstone, it was obvious more than ten very messy people lived in this house. The swarm of show goers queued up to use the disgusting humid bathroom almost seemed to be cleaning a path through the sleeping bags and other squatter trust fund paraphernalia. What a romantic backdrop to wind down the already humdrum date I was on.
And then I saw an angel standing there. Not by the record machine. Oh no- he was standing in front of the fridge, icebox open, gently fanning himself with his t-shirt that had been removed a couple of hours ago. I noticed a series of violent looking scars on his chest and collarbone.
"WHO IS THAT?!" I practically shrieked at my poor already long forgotten original date.
"Oh... that's Sam." Homeboy replied, looking instantly bummed that I had noticed the near perfect (and shirtless!) Tom Selleck impersonator in front of us. "He's a psycho but very charming. He likes to set firecrackers off on his chest when he performs with one of his bands. They're pretty good and actually I think----"
I rudely cut him off. "I need to meet him. Now. Take me to him. NOW."
First Date shrugged and sadly led me up to Sam. "Sam this is Joie. Joie, Sam." I could already see First Date fading into the crowded and faceless mass of partiers.
Sam was at least six feet tall with wide and manly shoulders of a lifelong guitar player who worked carpentry odd jobs between tours. He had put his shirt back on and it had a picture of two kittens on it. I kind of hate cats, but I swooned immediately. I knew this was just some 40 year old's last ditch effort at being eccentric, cool or ironic. Maybe all three. But I ate it up like a trail of Texas Toast breadcrumbs. He had soft curly brown hair with smatterings of gray. A mustache that would make the bartender at your favorite stupid craft cocktail bar cry tears of shame graced his upper lip. His chocolatey brown eyes danced playfully. I could tell that he was glad First Date had made himself scarce. We shared a stiff tequila drink he was holding. We flirted and laughed; I felt like it had been SO LONG since I made this kind of immediate connection with such a babe.
"Hey, I'm playing next, will you come down to the basement and watch us?" Sam knew I was putty at this point. I was hooked. What girl doesn't want to stand on the side of the makeshift stage in a stench filled basement, staring at the apple of her eye while sipping plastic bottle vodka she just paid way too much for at a card table bar? Ok, I mean I know of a few women who wouldn't want this scenario. And to be honest they all really have their shit together. But I'm a romantic, OK?
The set was mediocre at best, but it was hard for me to pay attention to the music anyways. All I could think about was how I was so very glad to be wearing my cute cupcake pattern undies. And "OH SNAP did I bring a toothbrush with me?" Throughout the set Sam stood out, mainly because he was the only one wearing any color out of his bandmates or audience. Bright banana yellow pants that were seemingly painted on his muscular thighs. His untied, beat up sneakers peeked out from the butter toned flares. God bless those yellow pants. When the band was done the usual dance of "Which one of our apartments are we drunkenly making out at" went down.
I made the mistake of telling Sam and Sam's ego this years later, but I had never felt such a tug in my girl loins before. He would cackle like a little boy in the middle of a joke or conversation with his eyes sparkling, or he would whistle when trying to make a point or punctuate an exclamation and I could feel my nipples getting hard. The undeniable power of sex oozed out of his pores and I was hoping some other areas later.
He insisted I see his loft. A loft! How impressive! Usually a guy in New York City (Brooklyn especially) had maybe a closet sized bedroom to lay claim to. A loft though! By the river! It all sounded so glamorous. We hailed a cab and made out in the backseat the whole way to his building. I was in heaven! What luck! I had seen First Date leave with a group of impressionable newbie Brooklyn girls, so I was guilt free about that and ready to throw myself at Sam as hard as i possibly could.
We arrived at the loft. IT looked like a big industrial style building. Visions of new stainless steel applicances and bare beamed high ceilings danced in my vodka drenched brain. As we took a rickety elevator to the top story of the narrow factory, my heart started to sink. This was no exposed brick bachelor pad. This was literally a loft. Like, as in a big room with different sections marked off by rugs, sheets and in one case, a big plastic see through shower curtain. The inhabitant of the shower curtain corner waved energetically at Sam and I, grinning big. It was 4:30am by this point. What was this freak doing wide awake? The "loftmate" had a bunch of bird cages in his room and was burning so much incense I thought I might puke.
"That's Barry! He was in Toxic Babies." Sam offered. Toxic Babies was like, all I had listened to in junior high. They were actually one of my favorite bands growing up. I choked back tears as assumptions about a punk hero of my past burned up like tinfoil in the microwave.
We made it to Sam's area of the loft. It was a little more private than the rest of the People Under The Stairs style camp we had just tramped through. He had three walls and a fake door. Literally some heavy rubber mat swinging from a rod, but at least I could get naked without giving more of my rock heroes of the 1990s a show. We began making out and I got over being in a commune situation pretty quickly. Sam was an expert at touching me. He got my pants off and soon his sunny colored trousers were next to mine in the growing pile of our clothing on his floor. I was more than happy to oblige most of his sexytime whims.
Now here's a little TMI but without it, the rest of this story would be useless. I monitor my pube lawn, but I am not obsessive about being hairless. Every lady has what they are comfortable with personally in terms of undergrowth, and I myself have had every length of merkin mane from totally waxed to full bush. The final request that came out of Sam's mouth that night did not shock me at all: "Can I shave you?"
"Can you shave me down there? Sure!" I stood up, ready to be led to where ever the bathroom was in this Williamsburg boho on a budget labyrinth. This could be kind of sexy. My new crush getting up close and personal with my lady parts... which I am VERY proud of by the way. But no! Sam produced a fresh razor from his desk's drawer. A blue Bic razor like my dad used to use. Wait! Why was I thinking of my dad at a time like this! My lady boner was fading fast. Next up, a ceramic bowl that contained what looked like last weeks cereal leftovers came out from behind his record player.
"Um, are you going to shave me over a cereal bowl?" Mind you, I am asking a guy who paints every other fingernail silver, named his little one hitter weed pipe, and I mean you already heard about his firecracker act earlier. Sam was an active member of a glorious and much idolized punk scene of times before I was born. A time when anything went. Of course his answer was yes. He would be shaving my vagina over a cereal bowl.
I spread my legs and let him go to town. Don't worry, as water was also a crucial part of this process. I leaned back and took a sip from the warm forty ounce of Mickey's beer we had grabbed from a corner deli. To tell you the truth I felt pretty fucking gangster. I had nabbed the batshit crazy guitarist, scored BIG TIME, plus got a free spa service. You know you need unique New York.
